Weeks 26 to 32: All the reasons to believe

in tickly-toe grass

a buttercup offers up

yellow nose kisses

                     

                               Betsy E Snyder

I often wonder 5 to 10 years from now, how will I recall these past months? I suspect my eyes will swim with the memory of impending motherhood with its particular enmeshing of anxiety and hope -- indescribable really.

I might recall the inexplicable peace that comes with the responsibility of another being inside you and grasp in air for memories, so many of them micro moments....think too much, hold too hard and they vanish. If English has a word for it, am unaware of it. Urdu sure has. Kasak. In the very word is a sense of gossamer; a sublimity that demands respect. Indeed,  this blog is me simply exercising my boy-scout tendencies to help me grasp those inevitably elusive butterflies, tighter, later.

I will remember Sippa pacing up and down discussing nappies and flannels and baby wools; I will remember his warm heavy hand on my lower back, its gentle pressure reassuring, guiding and loving whenever we went out -- the best kind of pampering is always unspoken.  I will remember being woken up with divine back massages and an amused but resigned smile whenever I demanded and got a massage. I will remember the chaat sessions, the mutton and fish cooking on Sunday mornings and most of all, the joy on his face to see the joy in my eyes not wavering from the food on my plate.  I will remember the sweet treats, some demanded some bought as a surprise...the bikajis' laddoos and jalebis, the introduction to kachoris, the pastries....the Foodworld aisles jokes about Nutella and Milkmaid-consuming behemoth (nevertheless, they went inside the trolley without much protest :p)...

Seems we are (again) getting lost in food. I will also remember the many admonitions, the many discussions about parenting, the planning of the new flat...a happy coincidence we will be welcoming the baby and the flat at the same time!

I will remember my parents' extreme anxiety, their eagerness to make me do nothing, their compulsion to cloak me in their protection, their spilling-over love that in these months seem to have turned more blind than ever...but can one really complain about being loved? Not within me, I cannot. Maybe I will understand it all a bit more once I become a full-fledged mother myself, at least that's what my mother keeps telling me. I will also remember her amusing efforts at appearing experienced and wise and trying really hard to recall her long-forgotten pregnancy; and I will not forget my father rushing out literally at my command to get me badam halwa, jalebi, laddoo, sapota...there we go again!

Whatever I had dreamt of pregnancy and impending motherhood, reality has been one up on it. It makes me want to cry and laugh at the same time. It makes me feel inordinately blessed. It makes every ache, every throb, every impending pain, everything worth it.  It makes me feel like a woman, all woman. 

 

I leave you with two songs this time... the first one's poetry describes it all and the other because it totally 'gets' kasak. 

 

 

 

Weeks 17 to 21: Nothing prosaic about it

Lights out 

... the firefly  

inside

             ...Peggy Willis Lyles

There is so much to write and so much to express; it is all a bit overwhelming. It successfully keeps me away from penning it down. I think of what to write and how to frame the words when the dogs howl and sleep is nowhere near. I convince myself that I am not being lazy, just confused. I end up not knowing the truth. I try to formulate that entire buzz into coherent thoughts while cooking – I only end up burning the onions. But, like always, a stray dream came to my rescue. Today morning, I dreamt of fully-formed lines of bad poetry; lines happy to embrace all my zig-zag-ness. So here it is. Bad poetry is really always more than what good prose can ever hope to be :P

You are pregnant, the mind, the body (and the doctor) says

She is ‘carrying’ is what my father says

We are expecting a baby is what the husband says

We will be grandparents is what my mother says

You have a bun in the oven is what my friend says

You are preggie is what the Yankee website says

This is to tell you what nobody says

sometimes it feels like the world itself is within

other times, it is just another hollow ball of fear

sometimes, I fall in love with myself anew

other times, I get anxious about all my greys

sometimes, I walk around carefully, afraid to trip

other times, I am even more klutzy than ever

sometimes, I admire my slowly rounding belly

other times, I shrink back from the mirror

sometimes my back screams in protest

other times, it groans just for attention

(which it gets from a doting husband

what’s the harm in adding)

sometimes, I feel like I can climb a mountain, waddle and all

other times, I cannot even wiggle a toe

sometimes, I cackle at the oddest things

other times, I bawl even louder than soap heroines

sometimes every song holds a special meaning

other times, even music is alien

sometimes I feel like making love all night

other times, I want to simply curl over

sometimes, I want the whole world to know

other times, I want to hug this little secret

sometimes I feel I can forgive the whole world

and welcome it with a crushing hug

other times, I want to be left alone

just alone, just alone

sometimes, the wait feels magical

other times, I want the baby to be here now.

sometimes I wish fervently it is a boy

other times, I dream of colourful hair ribbons

sometimes, I look into his eyes and want all of him repeated

other times, I want the baby to be all like me, just like me.

sometimes I feel I will be the best mamma ever

other times, the very thought makes my hand clammy

sometimes, it all feels too momentous to contain

other times, I want to pretend it’s just another year

sometimes it feels like the beginning of a story

other times, it feels like the end of a long chapter.

sometimes I get lost in these whorls

of sometimes and other times

that’s when from under the lining of my skin,

there comes a little tap

a feather-light drumming of life

a butterfly eager to flutter

then I know, all over again.

I crave all the sometimes and

even love all the other times

I simply don’t want to be anyplace else.

As always, a song for the occasion and one for the road.

 

Weeks 9 to 16: All things seem possible in May (and June)

Butterflies flit, in a field

of sunlight, that is all

                        - Matsuo Basho

And suddenly the rains stopped, the clouds became fluffy white and the sun was out. No not really. Not so easily in these parts in late May. But that is how my insides felt. Without any outside affirmation of any sort (the doctor's visit was another week away and I was still feeling like wrung-out jeans on a clothes line), I felt OK. Totally there. All there. From somewhere there rushed a warm gush of confidence and contentment. I somehow knew all my fears and anxieties will be just that; the nuchal scan will be completely fine. Aren't there moments in life, too fleeting to comprehend and yet brimming with magic, when you simply know. I had one of those. 

After which, my body seemed to naturally respond to this state of mental well-being. Miraculously, the gagging stopped one fine day. My appetite returned in full force, so much so that some afternoons, I spent circumambulating the refrigerator. If I looked long enough, I could even spot a tiny tummy (er...the pregnancy-related tiny...I had a substantial tummy even before...so yes, the difference could be only made out by dreamy eyes like mine). 

The day of the scan finally arrived and just as predicted, the little thing in there was happy playing truant with the radiologist -- somersaulting just when she wanted to see its nasal bone and making me drink gallons of water and showing up in the right position just when I felt like an about-to-be-pricked water balloon. 

It is rather disconcerting to have that stone cold gel applied just above your pubic bone while an emotionless monitor displays new life inside and husband watching everything, rather shyly. Or was that the beginning of reluctance? But then, who said pregnancy will not be disconcerting. 

And so, I could finally burst out with the news to the one friend I really wanted to say it to. For she was the only one in this whole wide world, who knew it from the time this baby was conceived in a shining corner of my little brain nearly two years ago. Needless to say, she was suitably excited. 

But I confess, the thing that gets me most excited, sometimes I suspect, more than actually being pregnant, is watching the husband pacing up and down, planning for the baby, teasing, laughing, cuddling baby thoughts and smiling that guileless smile when I spell out my random dreams. Is this the same man who frowned at the mere mention of a child?

The world indeed is "mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful". Touchwood.

I leave you with a classic varnam in the most joyful raaga of them all - Mohana and a jing-jang version of Mohana raaga, which was serendipitous. But first the original.